


From Haven With Love

by Tempest_Rulz



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Family, Gen, Letters, M/M, Politics, Romance, Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempest_Rulz/pseuds/Tempest_Rulz
Summary: When the circles fell, Sybille Beaumar and the remaining mages and Templars of Kinloch Hold flee their only home for the wilderness to avoid the fighting, hoping to weather out the war. They place their hopes on the coming conclave to calm the conflict, only to have it literally blow up in their faces. Running short on lyrium, food, and everything else, their only chance lies with the newly formed Inquisition and the charmingly flirtatious and handsome Herald of Andraste.At the age of twenty eight, Alexander Marcus Maxmillian Cassius Trevelyan had not amounted to much. The fourth son of the Bann of Ostwick, he had neither fortune nor fame. He competed in tourneys, but only had a middling rank, and spent his most of his days refusing to do anything useful, like dedicating himself to the Chantry. His greatest achievement was his good looks. Despairing of their son ever making anything of himself, his parents sent him to the Divine’s conclave with a distant cousin in the hopes that he might be thrown in the way of important people and find a rich heiress to marry...





	1. Dear Diary

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Greagoir has retired as Knight Commander and one of the other Templars at Kinloch has replaced him in the lead up to Inquisition.

Dear Diary,

We’re leaving Kinloch. The fighting is getting closer and closer and the Circle is too obvious a target. With Chantry aid spread thin, we don’t have the means to launch a sortie if we’re ever surrounded.

  
It’s strange. For twelve years, all I ever wanted to was to leave here, but now that we are leaving, I’m loathe to do it. For all that the circle tower was my prison, it’s also been my home for more than half my life. I don’t have any other home left. I know it’s not about the blocks of stone, but I swear this place has memories of its own. This was where I met Sol, Anders…

  
No, I won’t be sad. It’s ridiculous to be. I’m finally getting my wish. I finally get to be in the world rather than observing it through a narrow stone window. Home is with the people who love you and all my friends are going with me.

  
Still, this moonlight shimmering over Lake Calenhad, shattering as it meets the ripples on the water, so so beautifully sad. I’ve seen this scene hundreds of times. Will tonight be the last? You don’t think you’re going to miss things until you’re just about to lose them.

  
I think I hear someone looking for me. Oh, it’s just Andrew. I might stay a while, say goodbye to the tower.

 

* * *

 

The moon was setting by the time the small band of Templars and mages, half trained and weary, pushed the boat out onto the glassy surface of the lake. Sibby cast a glance back at the silent stone tower that held so many memories, both good and bad.

  
“Sybille, come on!” Andrew called. The others were all looking warily at the woods surrounding the lake, trying to discern any movement amongst the dark boughs that could indicate the presence of enemies.

  
There was nothing. She clambered into the boat and sat next to Knight Commander Erik, who had been stripped of his commission when Kinloch had been disbanded. Was the Templar really going that grey? She hadn’t noticed until now. They loaded their meagre belongings onto the boat.

  
“So where are we going to go?” asked David, a young apprentice whose voice had just started changing.

  
“Out into the wilds, with the rest of the refugees,” said the Knight Commander — Erik. Ser Erik. He would always be the Knight Commander to her. “Somewhere we can hide and blend in to weather this storm.”

  
“And how long will we stay there for?” asked Florence. She clutched her small bundle to her chest, her eyes inordinately wide in her thin, pale face.

  
“As long as we need,” was the grim reply.

  
It didn’t comfort Florence one little bit. Sibby gave her a small smile, to assure her that it was all going to be all right. She didn’t believe it herself, but as one of the oldest mages in the group, she had a responsibility to keep the others calm.  
Andrew finished loading the boat and got in himself. Out of his Templar armour, he somehow seemed smaller, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. Had he grown old too?

  
She took up one oar, and he the other. Together, they rowed towards the shores of Lake Calenhad.

 

* * *

 

  
Dear Diary,

It’s been four days since we left the Circle tower. Whatever excitement there had been initially has all but dissipated. We’re trying to blend in with the other refugees heading for Ferelden’s Hinterlands. King Alistair is the only monarch in Southern Thedas who hasn’t condemned all mages. They whisper that he’s still pining over an apostate — a Chasind witch. I think I met her that time when Sol came back during the Blight to help with the Uldred issue. Yellow eyes, lots of feathers.

  
Knight Commander Erik had us all liberate commoners’ clothing. The downfall of most apostates escaping from circles, he said, was that they never thought to wear anything other than mage robes. All the enchantments in the world won’t deter any Templar with eyes. I bet Anders wished he’d known to do that. Maybe he wouldn’t have…

  
Who am I kidding? It’s not like a pair of rough woollen trousers would have changed his mind about shit.

  
Erik has me rationing out our Lyrium supply. We brought all that we had but that’s not very much to begin with. I found that enchanter’s secret stash but even that was running low, with Orzammar’s trade having been interrupted by the war. It sounds so civilized when what King Bhelen actually means is that we’re too screwed up to do business with. I happen to agree with his assessment. There are bodies everywhere, their mouths and nostrils and eyes crowded with humming black flies, with little white maggots squirming all over their wounds and hair. They’re just lying there by the side of the road for animals to chew on. Some of them are still alive, but beyond aid. Andrew wanted to help them, but what could we do? We barely have enough supplies for ourselves. So we left them. I’m trying not to think about their eyeless sockets. The birds, they go for the eyes first. Pluck them out like juicy nuts. Oh Maker, Creators, whatever. I’m sorry. I really am. But I need to live.

* * *

 

Dear Diary,

  
We’ve set up base in the wilderness where there are more goats than people. There are bears too but they don’t really bother us. We’re too well armed. Of more concern are the Lyrium smugglers, who are suspicious of anyone who crosses their paths. We’ve found a supplier though. That would help. We’re hoping that we can last out here long enough. Word has it that the Divine has called for a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to try and resolve he war. Is it too naive to hope that it’ll work?

I don’t believe in the Maker — if he’s real, and he really is all powerful, then he has a lot to answer for. He owes me. But I really do hope someone out there, up there, is taking note of all these prayers. This war has got to stop. I have reason to hate the Chantry — more than most, I would say, but if this madness goes on for much longer, none of us would be left alive to remember why we’re fighting. I can’t imagine this was what Anders was wanting. He always just wanted to help everyone. I don’t believe what they say, that he was a maleficar. That’s not the man I knew. We’ve talked about this before. The last thing he would want is for all these mages to die needlessly. We’re all being played. We’re being played by the Chantry who look more and more needed, more and more relevant as time goes on.

  
Erik’s started getting the shakes. He needs a lot more Lyrium these days. I have to wonder, does the Chantry know what it’s doing to these men and women who dedicate their entire lives to the faith? Is that how they repay their loyalty? I know what happens to Templars who get too old and absentminded to serve. The Chantry blames us for needing the Templars’ sacrifice. And they let us blame the Templars for our suffering even though it’s the Chantry that’s ordering it. The Templar Order didn’t kill my family. It was sanctioned by the Chantry, who wields the Templars as its weapons. Templars, mages, even kings; we’re all just toys in their game for eternity, or whatever it is they actually are playing for!!!

  
(Here, ink has been splattered, possibly from a shattered nib. The paper is slightly torn and the edges are browned and curled.)

 

* * *

 

  
Dear Diary,

  
I lost control yesterday. I almost burned you. Hah, that would be the second magical incident to have been caused by me. Except nobody knows what I almost did and I intend to keep it that way.

  
I’ve given Erik an Elfroot and spindleweed mixture to manage his pain and the shakes. He called me Amell today. He thought I was Sol. I’ll give him a higher dosage, perhaps, and see if that helps. Even these common herbs are hard to come by, because the rogue templars have control of the waterways where spindleweed grows and the rogue mages have the wood with the elfroot. I can’t help but wonder if this is actually a Chantry plot. Before Kirkwall, the circles and the Order were almost getting along. Is the Divine afraid that she’s about to become obsolete? With more magical developments and even more scientific developments, the Maker and Andraste seem more and more like distant fairy tales. So the Chantry is jerking our leashes to remind us who’s in charge.

  
Fuck the Chantry.

 

* * *

 

  
FUCK

* * *

 

Sibby couldn’t write. She couldn’t do much. All hope was gone. The conclave had been blown up and, along with it, any chance for peace. They would never return to Kinloch, never come out of hiding. They were all going to die out here.

“They’re talking about a new Inquisition,” Andrew said, coming over to hand her a bowl of thin soup of nug and wild roots.

“What’s that?” asked Sibby, looking up at her old friend. Andrew sat down next to her on the damp mossy log and stared into the campfire.

  
“Long ago, when the world was in chaos,” he began intoning as if telling a story to a child, “the Inquisition was formed to bring order to a world on the edge of destruction. I can’t remember exactly what was going on. They later became the basis of the Templars and the Seekers.”

  
“Sorry, Andrew, but I don’t think more Templars is going to solve the issue at hand.”

  
Andrew gave a short laugh and poked another stick into the campfire. “I thought you liked us,” he said.

  
“I like you as people,” said Sibby. “You’re my friends. But the order — the order is not my friend.”

  
“I hear this new Inquisition is bent on finding a solution to the Mage Templar conflict,” said Andrew. “And the hole in the sky, whatever that is. They’re looking for recruits, of any kind.”

  
“I’m not sure I trust them. They sound like too much of a good thing.”

  
“We may not have a choice soon. We’re running low on lyrium.”

They’d been raiding rogue Templar caravans to replenish their stocks, but with winter setting in, there were fewer and fewer of those coming through and the ones that did were heavily guarded; far too heavily guarded for their ragtag bunch to raid.

Some of the smugglers were willing to trade, but for exorbitant prices. The last time any of them got paid was when some rich Ferelden captain gave her gold in exchange for a night in bed. It was the easiest five gold sovereigns, and the most legal, she’d ever made. The others thought she’d sold some pelts. She wasn’t going to tell them or anyone, ever.

  
The five gold sovereigns had bought them enough lyrium to last them five days. It was an expensive habit, created to leash Templars to the chantry. They’d been rationing their supplies to stretch them out a bit longer, but there was only so much time before they ran out completely. Erik was getting worse day by day. He hid it, for their sakes, but she could see.

  
“I hear they’ve taken back the crossroads,” Andrew continued. “The Inquisition. They’ve got someone who can deal with the demon rifts. They call him the Herald of Andraste. I know you don’t believe in religion, and I’m not asking you to, but if they can deal with the rifts, maybe there is something there for us. Why don’t we go down to the crossroads tomorrow, check it out?”

  
“Fine,” said Sibby.

“Eat your stew,” said Andrew. “We don’t need mages fainting as well. Templars are bad enough. Tomorrow, we go to meet the Inquisition.”

 

* * *

 

The Crossroads were teeming with activity and there was a palpable buzz of excitement in the air, like a hive of bees awakening to spring after a long, bitter winter. Everywhere, there were signs of this new Inquisition, with the sunburst sword and the all seeing eye on every banner. It was much changed from what she remembered, just a few weeks ago, when everyone had been living in fear of the rebel mages and Templars taking over and killing everyone.

  
She picked her way over the wooden paths laid down hastily over puddles, following Andrew’s lead. What did he hope to achieve? Was he just going to approach one of the soldiers and say, “Hey, what about this new Inquisition, huh?”

  
Actually, considering it was Andrew, who’d made shadow puppets to comfort a terrified and angry little mage apprentice whose parents had just been killed by a bunch of Orlesian Templars…

  
“Hey there, careful!” She crashed right into a scratched breastplate, behind which was a powerfully built young man with broad shoulders, light grey eyes, and curly brown hair. At his narrow waist, he wore a sword, much like what a standard Fereldan soldier would wear, while on his back was a shield most usually borne by Templars.

  
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  
“You’re all right,” he said. “Or are you? That was quite a hard bump.”

  
“I’m not that delicate, Ser,” she said with a smile.

  
“No, I daresay you’re not,” mused the man. “I’ve not seen you here before. Are you new?”

  
Who was this man who seemed to think he ought to know every middling refugee in the Crossroads?

  
“Herald, there you are,” said a stern woman in Chantry livery. Her accent was Nevarran, and she had a scar on her face. “We must not tarry. The rebel mages are encroaching on our boundaries and each day they have hold on the Witchwood is another day when supplies cannot come through to the people here.”

  
Herald? _Herald of Andraste_.

  
“Excuse me,” said Andrew. “But are you… Inquisition?”

  
Oh Creators and Maker above! He really was going to do it like this!

  
“And you are a Templar,” said the stern woman.

  
“Was. Had been. Before,” said Andrew.

  
“Smooth,” said the young man. The Herald. He raised an eyebrow at Sibby. “You’re not a Templar too, are you? I have a thing about them. They’re always trying to recruit me.” He made an exaggerated face of disgust.

  
The stern woman rolled her eyes. “That is definitely not a Templar. Just a civilian.”

  
“Yeah, civilian. That’s me,” said Sibby quickly.

  
“Cassandra, surely a Seeker would know a mage when she sees one?” said the languid voice of the elven mage, who was leaning on his staff and watching the entire proceeding with distracted interest.

  
“What? Mage? Me? Baseless accusations if I ever heard any.”

  
“Are you not?” asked the mage. The seeker, Cassandra, frowned.

  
“I’ve never cast a spell in my entire life,” Sibby declared.

  
“That’s almost true,” said Andrew.

  
Traitor.

  
“Peace,” said the elven mage who’d started all of this. “There is no need for concern if you mean no harm.”

  
“We’re just getting supplies, weren’t we, Andrew?” said Sibby. She tugged on her friend’s arm. The sooner they got out of here, the better. She didn’t like the look of that Seeker. Or that Herald.

  
“So soon? But we only just met,” said the Herald. “I don’t even know your name, Miss…?”

  
“Beaumar,” Andrew supplied. “And I am Andrew Collins, formerly of Kinloch Hold.”

  
“Say, didn’t Commander Rutherford come from Kinloch, Seeker Cassandra?”

  
Cullen? Crazy Cullen Rutherford, who lost the plot and almost killed Mervyn for trying to set his pants on fire? He’s a commander now? Somebody was mad to give him that job. Then again, the Inquisition was basically a faith militant. They all had to be a little bit mad. Still, the man they called the Herald seemed quite charming and perfectly normal, save for the mark he supposedly bore. He wore gloves so she couldn’t really see it.

  
“He did,” said Andrew, before Sibby could say anything. “We were friends. He’ll vouch for us. We’ve a group of us, mages and Templars who just didn’t think there was anything very clever about fighting each other. We’re running low on… just about everything,really.”

  
“You don’t have to tell them all our secrets,” hissed Sibby.

  
“They’re friends,” said Andrew. “I mean, you are, aren’t you?”

  
Cassandra pursed her lips and gave them a lookover, as if she was considering a particularly distasteful purchase.

  
“Of course we’re friends,” said the Herald. He held out his arms wide and gave them a grin that showed off his impressively white and straight teeth. Maker, he was beautiful.

  
“You’re not so bad yourself, Miss Beaumar,” said the Herald.

  
Did she say that out loud?

  
Cassandra made a disgusted noise.

  
“It occurs to me I haven’t properly introduced myself,” the Herald continued as if nothing untoward had happened. “Alexander Marcus Maxmillian Cassius Trevelyan, fourth son of Bann Maxmillian Marcus Cassius Alexander Trevelyan of Ostwick, at your service. My friends call me Alex. Most get lost by the time I get to my third middle name. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Ser Collins, Miss Beaumar, and would love it if you could join us at our stronghold at Haven, where we have supplies. Some.”

  
“Do you just talk demons to death?” asked Sibby.

  
“I believe I haven’t tried that one yet,” said Alex.

  
“You could give it a go, Charming,” said a dwarf who approached them with a sack that looked to be full of weaponry parts. “You’d probably win every battle without a scratch.”

  
“Says the dwarf who likes to dominate every conversation and spins the most extraordinary tales.”

  
The dwarf gave a low, almost mocking bow. “I live to entertain,” he said. “Varric Tethras at your service.”

  
“You wrote Swords and Shields!” Sibby blurted out before she could help herself.

  
“That serial? Somebody reads that?” The dwarf looked almost aghast. “Huh. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  
“It was one of the few novels we were allowed in the Circle,” said Sibby, blushing. “The Chantry approved it as being harmless.”

  
Cassandra snorted.

  
“Maker, please don’t remind me of the romantic tripe that was available in the Circle library,” groaned Andrew. “I thought it would be about adventure, considering the number of weapons mentioned in the title.”

  
“I assure you, there are much better books in Haven,” said Trevelyan. “We even have the entire collection of Hard in Hightown, signed.”

  
“I guess that settles it,” said Andrew. “Food, supplies, entertainment, excellent company; you offer an irresistible deal, Herald. We will consult with the others but I am willing to wager money I don’t have that we’ll be in Haven by the end of the week.”

* * *

 

Dear Diary,

  
Haven is an icy dump at the arse end of the world, not at all what its name implies. But I guess we’re safe here and we’ve a roof over our heads. Well, some semblance of a roof. They have non-leaking tents at the Inquisition. Still, despite the simple conditions that we’re living in, it’s still better than staying in the Hinterlands.

  
I’ve been assigned to the healers’ division, working for an apothecary named Adan. I like him. He’s gruff but straight and he doesn’t abide by any kind of fluffy nonsense. We work well together. I’m better at sutures than I am at potions and poultices and, to be honest, we need a few more surgeons anyway, with all those warriors who are coming back wounded from the fighting.

  
Andrew and the others are back in their best form, having gotten enough good quality lyrium. I’m glad, because for a moment there I really was worried. I don’t live with them anymore. The men have their own barracks. I suppose they don’t really want the sexes fraternizing too much when there’s serious work to be done. Also, mages and Templars don’t exactly make for the best roommates. I’m sharing a tent with an apprentice from Starkhaven called Minaeve and Florence. Minaeve is a researcher for the Inquisition and she’s helping me develop the tincture to make it more effective. I know, from experience, that Erik will only get worse. He seems all right for now, though. I’m not going to question small blessings.

Oops, I shouldn’t be writing. Adan’s shouting at me for shirking my duties.


	2. Dear Mother

The infirmary hummed and buzzed with the sounds of the wounded and the comforting words of the healers. Sibby's pestle grated rhythmically against her mortar as she ground elfroot into paste. The smell of blood and medicine permeated every thread and every pore, so much so that she had ceased to notice it. The other healers, mages and Chantry sisters alike, tended to the patients, sitting by their beds, speaking with them in soothing tones. She had no such consolations to give. Everyone always said she was too blunt, and she was more likely than not to blurt out a less than optimistic prognosis. So she spent her time more wisely, mixing new tinctures and poultices so they would be ready.

Pale winter sunlight shone through the lattices of the stained glass windows, casting reds and golds and greens onto the faces of the sleeping patients and the healers that tended to them. It was peaceful — or as peaceful as it could be when someone could always die any minute. In one corner, Adan was holding a furious, rather one-sided discussion with Ambassador Montilyet about supplies, while Mother Giselle tried to calm him down.

All of a sudden there was a great deal of fuss at the other end and the Herald ducked into the infirmary, cradling his arm. He seemed almost too large for the cramped space they had been allotted in one of the chantry's side chambers. "My lord," said Adan curtly. "What can we do for you?"

Some of the female healers huddled about, whispering to each other. Alexander gave them a brief smile, making them giggle most unprofessionally.

"I was wondering if one of your healers might take a look at this," he said, indicating his sword arm. "I'd thought that it would be all right, but…" He shrugged.

"Sybille, get in here," snapped Adan, jerking his head at the Herald. Out of all of them, he was one of the only people in the entirety of the village who didn't see him as being anything special and treated him the way he treated everyone else — with curt, no nonsense impatience.

Sibby left her work to lead him over to an empty station. Alexander's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I hope you're finding Haven to your liking, Miss Beaumar," he said.

"It's an icy dump, but thank you for having us," Sibby replied. "It was the least of all evils."

"I'm hurt," said the Herald. "Do you think so little of us?"

" _Haven_  is an icy dump, but you're all right."

"Huh. Only all right? Although you are correct and Haven is really an icy dump and I would love to be stationed somewhere warmer. However, it has been made much more pleasant by the exemplary company that has arrived recently."

"Do you make these compliments up in your spare time and dole them out as you see fit?"

"Oh, no. That was simply inspired in the spur of the moment. You can credit yourself with that."

Sibby shook her head. Shouldn't the Herald of Andraste be more serious? But, no, Alexander Trevelyan flirted with anything that had legs. She shouldn't be flattered, really, even if his words and presence did warm her from the core outwards with no rational explanation. She wished he weren't  _quite_ so handsome. That way she would be less inclined to be silly. Not that he could actually be interested in her. He could practically have any woman he wanted at Haven, if he so wished, and some of the men too. Perhaps with the exception of Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale. Both were quite immune to his charms.

"Let's take a look at that arm," she said. He placed his arm on the table and she slowly unwrapped the dirty makeshift bandages around it. Blood and discharge had seeped through the linen, staining it red and brown and yellow, and the unmistakable scent of charred flesh and rot emanated from the wound.

"What happened?" she asked. She peeled back the last layer, and Alexander winced. "Herald, this is terrible."

"I thought it would be all right, seeing as it was a fire bolt that did it," he said.

"You should have gone to a healer immediately!"

"I didn't want to make a fuss, Miss Beaumar. Like you're making one now."

"I should smack you up the head for your stupidity. Now it's going to be twice as hard to heal, and you will, at the very least, get a scar."

"Proof of my battle prowess?"

"Proof that you're an idiot."

She plucked several jars off the shelves and dumped a few drops of their contents into a copper basin, which she then filled with hot water. The scent of pungent medicinal oils rose through the air. Alexander sucked in a breath through his teeth as she started to clean the burn, which had gone deep into his flesh. The edges of the wound had gone grey and dead, but from the looks of it, the infection had not yet spread so far that the arm was beyond saving. A couple more days and the story would have been quite different. She offered him a little tincture of poppy diluted in water, which he took without question, completely trusting her, which caught her off guard. Was he not afraid that she could poison him?

He looked away and clenched his teeth as she worked on his wound, cutting away the rotted flesh and then sewing the edges together with sure, quick sutures before applying a poultice of elfroot and embrium which was bound to ward off any other infection. Then she forced a potion down his throat. Solas himself had made that. It was almost good enough to bring back the dead.

"There," she said as she finished tying off the ends of his bandage and he finished gagging. "Come back in six hours to get the poultice changed. You'll have a scar, but no muscle damage at least. Next time, don't wait a week. Burns are nasty."

"Yes, Mistress," he said meekly. "Although, what excuse would I use to see you next time?"

* * *

My darling Alex,

We are all absolutely delighted to hear that you are alive. When news of what happened at the Conclave first reached me, your father and I feared the worst. Then we heard about the young Herald of Andraste and we thought, surely not, but it's true! It's you! We are so proud of you, even though your father won't openly admit it. You know how he is. I always knew you would be a great man. I always knew you would all be great men, no matter what path you pursue. I don't believe a single word of what those clerics are saying about you and the Inquisition. How dare they even  _imply_ that you are lying! If I ever hear anyone saying anything, you mark my words, I will let them know a piece of my mind!

What a shame you have to stay in the Frostbacks. Shouldn't an organisation like the Inquisition be setting up some place more civilised? I'm not saying you need to be in the Free Marches, but Val Royeaux, or even  _Denerim_  would be a much more suitable place. How is anyone even supposed to come and visit the Herald of Andraste when he's out in the middle of nowhere? It seems most unwise.

Elaine is very eager to come and see you, regardless of how cold the Frostbacks are this time of year. Please do let us know when would be suitable for a visit. We all miss you very much. Little Horatio was asking about you the other day. I'm pretty sure he was asking about you, since he kept pointing to your portrait.

So sorry to hear about cousin Hypatia, but, to be quite frank with you, nobody really liked her anyway. She was always so much 'holier than thou'. But one should not speak ill of the dead, even if no one misses them.

Love,  
Mother

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_Now really isn_ _'t a good time to come to Haven. Please don't come. I assure you, you wouldn't enjoy it very much. It's cold and there are soldiers everywhere, and not a sign of civilisation in sight. We don't even have bathtubs, I swear to the Maker. Please tell Elaine that she would be much better off staying in Ostwick. Now that the circles have all fallen, everyone else thinks every mage is an apostate. The roads are full of demons._

_I cannot tell you more, but I promise I will write again soon. Please give my love to Father, Maxentian, Cassius, Godfrey, Elaine, Horatio, Lucia, etc., etc._

_Love,  
Alex_

* * *

_Sister Leliana,_

_I might have told my mother not to visit because we have no bathtubs in Haven. I know this is blatantly not true, but just in case she sends a scathing letter upbraiding the Inquisition for a lack of hygiene amenities (she is very protective of me), please do intercept any and all missives out of Ostwick. I very much dislike the notion that such a letter might find its way to Seeker Pentaghast or, worse, Ambassador Montilyet._

_I am in your debt._

_~~Herald~~   ~~Lord~~  Alexander Trevelyan_

_P.S. I may also have told her not to let my sister come to Haven because the roads are full of demons._

* * *

Lord Trevelyan,

I will take your suggestion under advisement. Might I also suggest that you craft better lies in the future?

Sister Leliana

* * *

_Sister Leliana,_

_I panicked, all right?_

_Alexander Trevelyan_

* * *

Dearest Alex,

No bathtubs?! Why, that is appalling! I suppose it would be rather difficult to have some sent to you, given the demon-infested roads. I do hope you will look after yourself as best as you can.

I know you are very busy now, slaying demons and dragons and all sorts of terrible things, and I am really proud of the work you do, but if you have a moment, could you please write to your sister? She has gotten it into her head that she is not interested in marrying. And I have to wonder, since she is no longer in the Circle, what  _else_ is she going to do with her life? Who will look after her when your father and I are both dead and gone? She's always been fonder of you than of anybody else and, despite her wilfulness, I think she will listen to you. I have found her the perfect match with one of our cousins in Starkhaven. He is a delightful man of few words and a vast fortune made from trade. And I think I may have found a young lady who would be just perfect for you. It is much easier to find eager young heiresses now that you are famous, or infamous, as some might say.

I'm sending you my kisses and prayers, and enclosed is a portrait of the young lady.

Lots of love,  
Mother

* * *

Lord Trevelyan,

Shall I endeavour to find out more about Lady Rosalind Kellington?

Sister Leliana

* * *

_Sister Leliana,_

_Cease and desist. Ignore. Don_ _'t read letters not meant for your eyes. It's rude._

_Alexander_

* * *

_Dearest_ Alexander,

It's my duty to read letters not meant for my eyes. She is surprisingly pretty for a Kellington, I must say. The family is quite rich, quite mad, and have married cousins for generations.

Sister Leliana

* * *

Leliana,

I said  _no_.

Alexander

* * *

Leliana,

Lord Seeker Lambert rejected our proposal. Herald has been approached by Mage rebels. Suspect that may be our only option.

Cassandra

* * *

Dear Diary,

Am I petty for being angry at someone even though they're probably no longer the person they had once been? I keep on thinking that I am justified, and then the next moment, I don't think I am. Feelings are such confusing things.

Cullen came by to visit some of the injured soldiers that we have under observation. As a side note, stay out of the way of terror claws, although they might make for decent weapons if anyone can actually get their hands on a set that doesn't dissipate as soon as the demon is dead. They burn through flesh like nothing else, ripping through steel chainmail as though it were tissue paper. We've lost quite a few warriors to them. Luckily, terrors are rare and one is much more likely to bump into a shade or a wisp. Still nasty, but not quite so terrible, according to the soldiers I've bandaged and sewn up. On the plus side, terror claws cauterize wounds so if your wound is not fatal, you're unlikely to bleed out on the way to medical aid.

But I digress. The Commander is apparently a people person and visits wounded soldiers. They seem to adore him. It's the first time I've been in the same room with him since we were all recruited. He didn't recognize me, but I just stiffened even though I tried to remain professional. Ultimately, maybe he was right about Merv because  _he_ abandoned us to join the rebels the first chance he got, and nobody's heard from him since, but I can't help but remember the look in his eyes that day when he attacked a harmless apprentice. One could say Templars like Cullen are part of the reason why so many mages went mad. How can I forget the horror stories that came out of Kirkwall? Varric has alluded to it in his  _Tale of the Champion_. Why else would Anders have gone so far? He had been angry even when in Kinloch, but I've never known him to harm innocents before. He was always more for words. It was Cullen and his Knight Commander who'd driven him to such drastic action. That had to be the only reason.

Andrew says I'm being too "judgey and grudgey". He says Cullen is no longer that same man who left Kinloch, and not the same man who once stood by while the Templars in Kirkwall perpetrated atrocity upon atrocity on the mages in the Gallows. He does seem different; graver, calmer. But he still did all those things. Surely something of that man remains. I couldn't bear to look at him when he came to see the men and busied myself pretending to sort potion bottles. He commended me on the work I was doing for the soldiers and the evenness of my sutures. He was so good with the men, and so polite to me.

Then he asked me my name and where I was from. I told him. I have nothing to hide. He started and almost lurched backwards in his surprise. "Sybille?" he said. "I… It has been very many years. I had not thought… I'm –I'm glad you're alive."

To be honest, I wasn't sure what I was expecting. That he would show his dark side in front of all his men? He's crazy, not stupid. Maybe he is being genuine, but how can I tell? "As am I," I said. I was very diplomatic. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but someone called him away with an urgent report of new demon rifts being opened.

Anyway, enough about Crazy Cullen. I can be professional. We work together, that is all. I mean, we were friends once, so I suppose I'll give him a chance. Still, I can't really believe this is the boy who was pining over Sol so badly that the entire Tower could see it, except Solona herself. Speaking of Solona, I haven't heard from her in a while. Last time she wrote, she was headed to Tevinter, seeking a cure for the taint, but that was months ago. Of course, she could have dispatched someone to Kinloch and they would have found nothing. She would probably know what to do about this breach thing. Maybe Sister Nightingale could find her? If anyone could find someone in the teeming masses of the Imperium, it would be her, right?

* * *

Dear Diary,

The Herald, Alex, came by to pick up some new potions. He's setting off again, back to Redcliffe, to deal with the new rifts and to try and make contact with the rebel mages because the Templars rebuffed him in Val Royeaux. Apparently the rogue Templars marched off to Maker knows where and one even punched a grand cleric! I might have failed at not smirking. "It's really not a laughing matter, Miss Beaumar," he said. "Even though I have also wanted to punch a grand cleric a couple of times. It is not to be commended." Then he grinned and leaned in close to me. "I thought that right hook quite well deserved. Don't tell Cassandra I said that."

"I promise," I told him. It's not like I'm ever going to get to talk to Seeker Pentaghast. That woman has a storm for a face and she's deadly with any weapon she picks up. I've been watching her and I think I could learn a couple of things. I need to get someone to teach me how to use a sword properly. It's only now that I've seen real fighting that I realize, while I might have some talent in that department, I desperately need training.

* * *

Sybille,

What's this about you trying to steal a sword?

Adan

* * *

Adan,

I wasn't stealing the sword. I was borrowing it without permission but with every intention of returning it before anyone noticed. If I'm to be any good as a field surgeon, I must know how to defend myself.

Sybille

* * *

Sybille,

You are a mage and you have been issued a staff.

Adan

* * *

Commander,

One of the mages, a Sybille Beaumar, tried to exchange her staff for a sword and a bow. I thought you should know.

Quartermaster Threnn

* * *

Quartermaster,

Thank you for letting me know. I shall deal with the matter.

Commander Cullen Rutherford


End file.
